


lifeline

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:56:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was gunned down in a filthy alley by mercenaries, Reaper had thought his situation was bad. When they had stormed forward and sliced his throat open to ensure their job was finished—fucking idiots—he had thought it couldn't get any worse.</p><p>But then the mercenaries run. Reaper rolls onto his back, chokes on his lifeblood. He can just barely make out a red visor glowing in the darkness, coming up the alley.</p><p>Then he knows he's <i>fucked</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lifeline

When he was gunned down in a filthy alley by mercenaries, Reaper had thought his situation was bad. When they had stormed forward and sliced his throat open to ensure their job was finished—fucking idiots—he had thought it couldn't get any worse.

But then the mercenaries run. Reaper rolls onto his back, chokes on his lifeblood. He can just barely make out a red visor glowing in the darkness, coming up the alley.

Then he knows he's _fucked_.

“I thought I'd find you here,” the soldier says, and Reaper would recognize Jack's voice anywhere, even if he can only hear it over the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears. One armored boot nudges at Reaper's shoulder, drawing a hiss from him. “You're a fucking mess. Let me help you.”

There's something like sympathy in his voice, and it makes Reaper _irrationally_ angry. Why should Jack care about him now, after all these years—after the fiasco that was Overwatch, after Switzerland?

“I don't want your _pity,”_ Reaper snaps, voice choked by fluid and half his words lost in the torn, bleeding mess that is his throat. “I want—your _absence._ ”

If the look that flashes briefly across Jack's face—similar to hurt, Reaper thinks, a shade of anguish—is any indication, most of his words still got through intelligibly; but right now he doesn't care. Like he needs Jack here, to witness another one of his failures—like he wants Overwatch's _golden boy_ to stand idly by while he bleeds into the dirt at his feet, and pity the man who was always the runner-up, always second-best.

“Gabe,” Jack says, and he sounds almost as tired as Reaper feels, as weary as a never-ending existence; Reaper snarls weakly in reply, pushes himself up to his hands and knees, his head swimming. “I'm not...just let me help you.”

“I don't need—”

“Bullshit you don't.” Jack tires of the stubbornness quickly—he's grown impatient in his old age—and bends down to pull Reaper up, ignoring the way the other man hisses and growls like an animal. He flings Reaper's arm over his shoulder and starts to walk, hauling most of his weight as he heads down the alley. “Wait until you actually have a throat before you bitch at me.”

Reaper has half a mind to reply—but then Jack's hold shifts, hand sliding down to settle over Reaper's hip and hold him closer, a mimicry of how they used to be. He blames it on the bloodloss and keeps his mouth shut, resting his head on Jack's shoulder and letting him carry them to safety.


End file.
